


remember (everything will be alright)

by whisperingwind



Category: Dunkirk (2017), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 13:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperingwind/pseuds/whisperingwind
Summary: He’s skinny, skinnier than he’s ever been - the outline of his ribs, collarbones, and spine are easily identifiable - and an array of strange bruises cover his lean physique. His hands are inflamed and scabbing and a few of his fingers are broken.The most noticeable difference, though, is his spirit. It’s broken and he’s not the same man who left England for France months ago, but Louis doesn’t know if it was broken long before or if the week fighting for his life on the beaches of Dunkirk shattered it.





	remember (everything will be alright)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "sign of the times" by harry styles
> 
> basically it's harry coming back from war, but he's still "alex" from dunkirk
> 
> i went between leaving his name as harry or going for alex for a really long time lol

There’s tension in the air. 

They’re on a train. Defeated and exhausted soldiers fill the booths in the railcar, absurdly quiet, afraid to make a sound as though they’re still fighting for their lives on the beaches in France, as though German troops are still scouting the shores for English, French, and Belgian soldiers, planning to meticulously kill them off, one by one. 

Across Tommy’s booth sits Alex. Alex. Defender of men. Protector of mankind. Weakling forced to evacuate the beaches. Embarrassment to the bloodline of the brave, heroic military men he is a product of. 

Oil is smeared across their juvenile, frightened faces, a reminder of those lost in the water merely hours before. Salt water sloshes in their boots, soaking the layers of grimy socks clad to their feet. 

Alex’s hair is viscous, filthy and dense, splayed across his dirty forehead, threatening to obstruct his line of sight. He lifts his hand to brush a few blackened strands away from his eyes, fixating his focus on Tommy. “We’re not heroes,” he says, dryly. 

“No one ever said we were,” Tommy replies, struggling to unfold a blanket given to him by a blind bloke on the pier. The pads of his fingers are stiff and numb from the cold and unforgiving weather they endured over the course of the last week. “We’re going home, mate. Forget about it.” 

“All we did was survive,” Alex echoes his own words, spoken brashly to locals on the dock, to the people kindly sending hundreds of thousands of soldiers off with food and bedding. “We might as well be dead with the way England will treat us. We’re as bad as the enemy.” 

Tommy studies the Highlander, light brown eyes scrutinizing the way his lips move as such cynical and harsh words spill out of his mouth. “That isn’t true,” he argues. 

“Innit?” Alex scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “They’ll be fuckin’ spitting at us in the streets.” He turns to face the window, eyes following the moon as it races the speeding train, as though gliding through the dark and omniscient night sky alongside them.

Memories of nearly drowning and scrambling to climb on a rowboat while other soldiers shoved him off flood his mind. It was night then, too, except the moon and stars were absent from the sky. The only light guiding his panicked swim was derived from exploding boats. 

“Do you have a family?” Tommy asks.

Alex’s eyes sting with impending tears. His jaw is clenched and his top and bottom molars grind against each other in the back of his mouth. “They’re not going to want a bloody thing to do with me,” he hisses. A single tear latches onto his bottom lashes, then trickles down his cheek, streaking the mud and oil plastered to his skin. He sniffles, quickly looking down, and tucks his chin to his chest, wiping the tear away. 

Dirt is cemented under and around his fingernails and the cracks in his palms. Inflamed blisters and cuts peek through the grungy stains on his hands, appearing discolored in an array of pink, red, and brown hues. 

Tommy swallows. 

“My dad did brilliant work in the RAF in the first war,” Alex confides, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t need pity from another soldier. “He’s a war hero, and what am I? What are  _ we _ _?_ ” 

He shouldn’t feel the urge to cry. He didn’t cry when a bomb from a German Messerschmitt was dropped on the beach and his friend was blown to bits in front of him. He didn’t cry when he was nearly crushed to death by a sinking hospital ship. He didn’t cry when Gibson drowned whilst trying to escape the capsized ship. And he won’t cry now. 

“We’re soldiers, Alex, that’s what we are,” Tommy says, pillowing the blanket behind his head. He pulls his legs onto the seat. “We did the best we could.” 

"Doesn't matter," Alex shakes his head. “Our best wasn’t enough.” 

“Sometimes it isn’t,” Tommy answers, softly. He lays his head against the makeshift pillow. “Say, do you have a bird waiting for you back home?” 

A sense of composure crosses over Alex as he thinks about the special person he left months ago. “I do.” 

“I bet she’s lovely,” Tommy yawns into his fist, tucking one leg under the other. "She'll be tickled to see you."  


_ He. He’s lovely. He'll be tickled to see me.   _

Alex doesn’t bother correcting him nor does he add any additional context. He starts to speak again, but falls silent, observing the relaxed rise and fall of Tommy’s chest. He’s calm, oblivious really, and Alex wonders if he’ll ever be able to feel the same.  
  
  
  


 

Stepping off the train is strange to say the very least. 

Hundreds of soldiers flee the trains, immediately intertwining with a mass of civilians who all cheer, pat them on their backs, and give their blessings and words of gratitude. When the train first pulled through the station, beers, apples, and bread were handing to them through the windows. 

Alex has never been quite this surprised. 

Tommy follows behind him as he shoves through the crowd of civilians, with a bottle of beer braced in one hand and a crisp, red apple in the other. It’s easy for him to forget his manners - and simple words such as "pardon me" or "I apologize" - as he barrels through hundreds of folks. He’s focused solely on finding one person in an assembly of unfamiliar faces. His boyfriend. 

“So much for spitting at us in the streets, eh?” Tommy calls to him after another gentleman tugs his hat off his balding scalp and bows his head at them, thanking them for for their bravery. "If I didn't know any better, I would have thought we won the war."  


Alex doesn’t reply, green eyes narrowed as he searches the crowd for one particularly gorgeous face. As the crowd begins to disperse, Alex can hear someone calling for Tommy, and he halts, turning to face the shorter man he’s spent a large portion of his time with, fighting a battle beside him, but doesn’t know well - or at all, really. 

Alex sets his beer bottle down and offers his hand to Tommy, unsure of what to say. He can’t congratulate him as they didn’t win. He can’t say it was a pleasure fighting alongside him because it wasn’t. They’re not friends in any way, or rather Alex doesn’t consider him anything more than an acquaintance. 

Tommy doesn’t accept Alex’s measly handshake, instead hugs him, patting his back. “We did the best we could, Alex,” he says, pulling away. A middle-aged man and woman approach them, engulfing Tommy into an embrace, and Alex is instantly forgotten about. He assumes they're Tommy's mother and father.  


He locks eyes with Tommy once more, accepts the fact they’ll never see each other again, and they exchange a firm nod. He turns on his heel, carrying on with his search for his boyfriend as older gentlemen continue to greet him with kind words and housewives offer him clean clothes and blankets. 

“Alex.” 

He recognizes the soft, tender voice immediately and glances around until he seeks the person whose said his name. As soon as he turns, time stands still. Only a few feet separate him and the person he’s been aching to see for weeks. 

“Alex,” the man coos, approaching him with faltering footsteps. He hesitates for a moment, studying Alex’s worn, malnourished, and beaten body, almost uncertain if this man is the one who bravely left him months before. He carefully places his hand on his dirty face, cradling his cheek, “oh God, love,” he breathes, doubling over, sobbing into his palm. “I didn’t- I didn’t know if you made it home. You- I didn’t see you come off the train.”

Alex feels numb. He knows he should be experiencing an overload of joy and gratitude, after all he loves his boyfriend more than anything, but there’s nothing. He doesn’t know how to describe the loss of sensation as anything other than feeling empty and lonely. 

Louis struggles to regain his composure and breathing pattern. “Alex, I- God, I don’t even know what to say,” he stands upright again, taking Alex’s hands into his, observing the grime and injuries inflicted on them. “I’ve been reading the papers and I can’t- I can’t even imagine what you went through.”

“We lost,” Alex says, “We fuckin’ lost.” 

Louis furrows his eyebrows.  “It doesn’t matter. You’re home now," He glances down at Alex’s hands again. “You’re filthy. We need to get you home and cleaned up. We’ll have a doctor look at your hands,” He touches underneath Alex’s jaw, rubbing the pad of his thumb over his stubble. Flakes of soot sprinkle off his face, floating to cement below. "Let’s get you _home_.”

“We’ve,” Alex stops, voice quivering. He looks away from Louis. “We’ve shamed the country,” 

“No, you haven’t,” Louis pushes his hair off of his face, uncaring if his hands become coated with oil and dirt, “You need to come home and we’ll get you settled with a hot bath and a cup of tea.” 

After a few minutes of consoling, Louis convinces Alex to come home with him. Their home is within walking distance to the train station and Alex’s mother and father are waiting at their house, desperate to see their son.

Louis begins to walk, nodding for Alex to follow. As they walk through throngs of civilians and soldiers the trains part the station and another docks, blaring it’s horn to alert everyone of the arrival of more young soldiers. 

The horn sounds mundane, then suddenly, it doesn’t. It warps into something louder, something more intense, something with no remorse or mercy behind its intentions. The ground is rumbling and Alex freezes, eyes blowing wide and mouth falling agape. 

The scene he was comfortable with crumbles around him. Louis disappears, the delicacies are gone, the congratulatory cheers are nonexistent. The sounds are loud and explosive - echoing from all directions - and he scans the sky for the location of the German aircraft. Specks of sand and dirt burst in the air, dropping back to the beach with force, covering the flesh and uniforms of the Highlanders surrounding him. 

One of his mates slams onto the ground in front of him, his body severely disfigured, and there’s blood everywhere, droplets of crimson drip off his face and coat the front and arms of his discolored uniform. 

Then, there’s a hand on his shoulder. When he turns to catch a glimpse, he’s being shoved under the dark, bottomless water, head held under the surface. Water fills his lungs. He’s coughing, flailing around, helplessly trying to find a way out of his confined predicament. It becomes harder and harder to breathe. Water climbs up his throat and expels itself from his nose and mouth. He can't breathe.  


He’s on the ground, curled in on himself, screaming and shaking. “Alex!” Louis yelps in surprise, kneeling on the floor, hesitating above his trembling boyfriend with shocked eyes and stiff fingers. “Alex, love. Alex.” 

People stop to stare, though most attempt to offer a helping hand. Louis denies their assistance, telling them he has it under control, even if he is terrified. He needs Alex to calm down, then they’ll be okay.

Alex’s eyes open, but those dire screams don’t stop, “He’s a- a fuckin’ gerry! A fuckin’- a- “ 

“Alex, no. Alex, you’re not in Dunkirk anymore, Alex.” Louis whispers, touching his face, wiping away the tears freely flowing from Alex's eyes. 

He coughs, trying to rid the taste of oil and salt water from the back of his throat, and tries to wipe away his mate’s blood from his gaunt face. “I- someone needs to- gotta get-”

“Shh,” Louis whispers, caressing his cheek, “Shh, you’re in England, you’re home Alex.”

The screaming halts in Alex’s throat and he sits up, frantically searching for Louis. Once he finds his eyes, he painfully exhales, choking on the air,  “Louis I-” 

“It’s okay, breathe,” he braces Alex against his chest, wrapping an arm around his filthy body. Alex buries his face against Louis’ neck, fisting the back of his cotton turtleneck, “Breathe Alex, you’re safe. What happened, love? What’s the matter?”

“The Germans-” Alex gasps for air, appearing like a fish out of water, wide-eyed and fragile, “Bombs everywhere. Couldn’t breathe, I- I almost drowned.”

A few soldiers walk past them, grumbling the words “shell shock” under their breath, though Louis doesn’t quite understand what those words mean. He's sure he's learned about it in school, though he's never been the most studious or attentive lad.  


“It’s okay. Let’s get you home,” Louis says, latching onto Alex’s elbow to aid him to his feet. He isn’t steady upon standing, rather it takes him a few moments to adjust his balance and footing. 

Once he’s home, his mum kisses his face nothing short of a dozen times whilst his dad waits patiently, embracing him tightly when given the opportunity. “We’re glad to have you home,” he says. 

Alex is too ashamed to speak.

After his parents leave to prepare dinner at their own residence, Louis sits in the living room waiting for Alex as he cleans himself of the dirt and grime plastered to his skin. Though, Alex begins to panic a few minutes into the shower, screaming when the water from the shower head begins to pelt down on him, and Louis races to the bathroom to check on him.

“Shh, it’s okay, sit down,” Louis hums, turning the shower head off, “Sit down, take a bath instead. I’ll run the water for you,” He plugs the drain and fills the tub with water. “How often were you in the water?”

“I was-” Alex stops to breathe, closing his eyes as the height of the water rises. He can’t bear watching it inch closer and closer to his face. He doesn’t want to drown. “On three different ships. They all capsized.” 

“All of them?” 

“Every fuckin’ one of them,” Alex exhales. 

He finishes with his bath and the two of them tread to their bedroom. Alex slides on a pair of white briefs and slips into bed, under a duvet instead of a cold, damp war zone for the first time in months.

His body is different than when he deployed. He’s tan from hours spent in the sun, but other than that small attribute, his physical appearance is miserable to stare at. 

He’s skinny, skinnier than he’s ever been - the outline of his ribs, collarbones, and spine are easily identifiable - and an array of strange bruises cover his lean physique. His hands are inflamed and scabbing and a few of his fingers are broken. 

The most noticeable difference, though, is his spirit. It’s broken and he’s not the same man who left England for France months ago, but Louis doesn’t know if it was broken long before or if the week fighting for his life on the beaches of Dunkirk shattered it. 

Louis lays down beside him, resting his head on his chest. “I missed you.” 

“I came back for you,” Alex admits, running his hand through Louis’ brunet hair, “Every time things got rough I remembered I had blue eyes and a heartbeat waiting for me back home.” 

“Always, Alex,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to his chest, “I’ll always wait for you.” 

Alex’s hand stops carding through Louis’ hair. “Do me a favor.” 

“Of course, anything,” Louis shifts to look at Alex, locking on his emerald eyes. 

“Haven’t been touched in months,” Alex grunts, stretching his legs. The front of his underwear is tented, an erection waiting to be taken care of underneath. “Would fancy you giving it a go.” 

A smirk spans over Louis’ small lips and rosy complexion. His fingers slide down Alex’s abdomen, stopping above the band of his underpants. He pulls the band, then snaps it back, allowing it to pop against Alex’s flesh.

“You bloody tease,” Alex bites his lip, “Jerk me off.” 

Louis’ hand pushes underneath his underwear and grips around his cock, hand and cock fitting together as though it was meant to be. 

Alex whines, throwing his head back against the mattress. His back arches slightly because it feels so good, so fucking good, and he has no self control. Louis starts to pump, hand gliding up and down the length of Alex’s cock, and the soldier gasps, “It’s been too fuckin’ long.” 

Louis laughs, arching his neck to reach Alex’s neck, where he blows cool air against his sun-kissed skin. His lips press to the area, sucking thoughtfully, then his tongue darts out of his mouth, pushing against the desired area as his lips budge against it. 

“Oh fuck, yeah,” Alex breathes, biting back the groan building in his throat. 

He uses his teeth to nip at the area, ensuring there will be a mark there come morning, and when people ask where it came from, he’ll have to lie and tell them he had a one night stand. From society’s view it’s unacceptable to be gay, and Alex is surprised they haven’t been caught together yet, after all these years. 

Louis begins to pump faster. Pre-cum leaks out of Alex’s slit and dribbles down Louis’ hand, sliding in the spaces between his fingers. “So fuckin’ good,” Alex whines, biting down on his lip. 

It goes on for a bit longer before Louis brings Alex to his climax. “Oh fuck I’m gonna-” He cums with prominent groan, coating Louis’ hand and the front of his underpants. He feels dizzy. He hasn’t been touched in such a long time and there’s something unique about Louis’ touch.

After Alex regains his ability to think and Louis returns from cleaning his hands of Alex’s cum, they lay together again. “There was a time when i thought you weren’t gonna come home,” Louis admits, putting his arm around Alex’s waist, “I was really scared.” 

“Like I told you,” Alex presses a kiss to the top of his head, “I came back for you. I fought for you. I did things I’m not proud of so I could come home to you. I love  _ you _ , Louis.” 

Louis shuts his eyes. “I love you too,” he hesitates, “Promise me you’ll never leave again.” 

“I promise,” Alex says, “Never again.” 

**Author's Note:**

> it's a lil short one shot inspired by dunkirk obviously lol...hopefully y'all enjoyed it. as always, feel free to leave me story suggestions below - even if they don't pertain to epilepsy verse - or on my  
> [tumblr](www.troubleistheonlywaydown.tumblr.com) . feel free to give me a follow on twitter @terrestrialhaz (we can be super cool mutuals!) thank you for kudos, hits, bookmarks, recs, comments, all that jazz. have a great day/night! huge love and cheers. emily.x


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